


9/11

by Sarina_Argus



Category: Batman (Comics)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 22:07:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19385542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarina_Argus/pseuds/Sarina_Argus
Summary: The effects of September 11th on the hero community





	9/11

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this piece while I was working in a police dispatch center on 9/11/01. I needed to write this. It's depressing and not at all canon with any of the stories I've written to date. If you're still having difficulties dealing with the WTC/Pentagon/PA episodes, you may want to skip this fic. Thanks to TBoarder for the last minute kick in the butt.   
> Disclaimers: DC owns all the characters. I came up with the story. No money made, done out of love.

They'd just gotten to the site when the second tower collapsed. Wonder Woman led the rescue efforts with Batman, Green Lantern and Flash directing the evacuation. Superman arrived with them, but left with the Titans shortly afterward to deal with DC. Normally, Batman was considered one of the heavy hitters and the team strategist, but there was no strategy in today; at least not on their side, not yet. All the murderers left behind was a collapsing building and an unreal amount of death. 

He equated them to murderers: killers of innocent people, people who probably knew more about Australian Saltwater Crocodiles than the politics or religion the murderers claimed to follow. Had it been a military base or a government building or embassy, it could have been somewhat understandable. But these monsters made victims of parents, children, brothers, sisters, families and friends. 

They made victims of his friends. Of his family. 

Lucius Fox was here placing the finishing touches on a Waynetech/Calcorp joint project. His assistant, Jeanne, who held the office together, went with him to make sure every 'i' was dotted, every 't' crossed. Waynetech and the family of Wayne Corporations owed much of their success to this team. 

They were on the 97th floor when the first plane hit. 

Firefighters and police officers from all over were the first ones to arrive. Gotham City, Bludhaven, units from all over the city, all over the state, cheered when the JLA showed up. Covered in ash, dodging debris, they raised their voices, rallying themselves and their heroes to action. They rushed headlong into the inferno, following Green Lantern's beacon, helping the wounded to the street below, going back for the dead. 

Lantern was only able to save 25 of them when the roof caved in. Officer Richard Grayson wasn't one of them. 

Flash got to the upper floors and brought down 20 before the falling glass and debris made more rescues impossible. He could vibrate through solid steel, but couldn't gauge the effect on an injured person. 

And in the chaos of the street below, Batman directed medical efforts. Organizing the workers, he helped triage the survivors. He and the medics rushed into the ash and pulled out bodies, carried people to the relative safety of the triage area. There were people dying around him and he knew it. He saw a medic run to assist a firefighter when the wall behind them started to crumble. He was the first person to dig into the powder and bricks to try and save them. He pulled the medic from the rubble and handed her to her waiting colleagues. And he held the firefighter's hand as the man died. 

He heard the medics crying behind him, saw as tears traced muddy tracks down the filthy faces of the rescue workers. Wonder Woman held her composure as she carefully lifted large sheets of molten glass and steel, letting the rescue workers run in and retrieve the broken bodies of the living and the dead. And he saw Wonder Woman shudder as she saw the fire dispatcher, a department veteran who waved at them when the JLA arrived. 

The man raised his hand to Wonder Woman, smiled weakly, and then was gone. 

Wonder Woman flung the mass of steel into the water, her face drawn with lines of anger and sorrow. J'onn would be perfect in situations like this, where the emotions were running high and his calm nature would defuse the more tense moments, but then no one would ever send J'onn into an inferno like this one. Still he wished then that J'onn was here. 

That was over 48 hours ago. Now the fires were out and all that was left was the search of the rubble. Thousands of people showed up to help, professors and plumbers, musicians and machinists, all of them came with hard hats and gloves, carrying flashlights and buckets, all of them ready to help. Superman led the new crew, took the first bucket and started the chain. 

J'onn was instrumental in finding survivors. All of the others came here to help, but as Superman explained, with the Titans and with Batman's group, there were just too many people. The telepaths stayed, but the level of emotion on the site and in the city left many of them shattered. 

They pulled 24 survivors out the first day. The second day they pulled 10. The experts told them the probability of finding anyone else alive was growing smaller with every minute that went. And still they dug, waiting for a miracle. 

Then the first of many happened. And it came in the form of an angel. 

Azrael stood atop a pile of rubble, carefully moving several buckets of powdered concrete when he heard the faint tapping. "SILENCE!" he yelled as he flattened his body to the debris and pressed his ear to the solid sheet, praying, hoping, willing the noise to resume. God, he prayed, please let it be so... 

And he heard it again. Not a random shifting of earth, but the distinct pattern 'Shave and a Haircut.' He began tearing at the rubble like a man possessed, shifting the mass with as much haste as he could. He couldn't move too quickly; he'd be damned if he ruined someone's chances because of his carelessness. 

Finally he found a small opening between the fallen slabs of concrete. Calling over one of the search crews, they carefully lowered a small camera into the opening... 

Six more were pulled out alive that day. 

Still the loss was unthinkable. Knowing that Batman had done all he could possibly do on site, Bruce Wayne arrived as soon as he was allowed. Waynetech supplied much of the heavy machinery needed to do the delicate removals. Bruce lined up with the others, donning his hard hat, carrying bucket after bucket of debris. Every time he heard the shout, he jumped, his hope still holding out. Dick was a resilient young man. They'd just resolved their differences. They were finally coming together, father and son. He had to be alive. Thinking the worst didn't do him any good. Dick had to have survived. 

It was exactly 12 days later that they found his body. 

Bruce ran to the litter and tore the flag away from Officer Richard Grayson's face. He brushed the dirt and glass from the younger man's cheek, his own tears leaving slick tracks across the porcelain skin. At least his eyes were shut, Bruce thought. At least I can't see his disappointment. He brushed trembling fingers through Dick's tangled hair. He looks so young... 

Two of Bludhaven's finest helped Bruce to the waiting transport van. Bruce wouldn't let them take him alone. He held onto Dick's hand all the way to the makeshift morgue. Finally Bruce unfastened the dirty gold badge from Dick's uniform and clasped it in his hands. He reluctantly released the body to the waiting volunteers and made his way to the waiting squad car, his shoulders bowed with defeat. "Pretty damn brave for a rookie. Grayson was a good guy," the officers told him, knowing that words would never be enough. Bruce nodded absently as they drove him back to his hotel. The coroner said he'd release the body to him the day after tomorrow. After the feds took a look. Bruce left orders to have him transported to Gotham as soon as possible. Naturally he'd be buried with all honors, the police chief said. But Bruce wasn't listening. He couldn't stay here any longer. He had to go. And the only images burned into his mind were those lifeless hands, those long dark lashes. Bruce stared at the badge now cradled in his hands. He was too young. He was too damn young. 

He had to tell Barbara. 

Barbara shouted. She yelled and threw anything she could find. Books lay shredded, picture frames broken, her anger and grief so overwhelmed her, she tipped her chair and lay beating the floor impotently with her fists. "DAMN YOU, GRAYSON!" she shouted. "YOU HAD TO GO AND GET KILLED! YOU HAD TO GET KILLED AFTER I FELL IN LOVE WITH YOU!" She faced Bruce. "AND DON'T TELL ME EVERYTHING WILL BE OK, BECAUSE IT'S NOT AND IT NEVER WILL BE EVER AGAIN!" Bruce gathered her in his arms and held her, letting her beat his arms and back, small penance for failing Dick again. Then when the anger faded, he held her close and let her weep into his chest, pitiful heart-wrenching sobs that made his eyes sting and his chest constrict. He stroked her back silently. She was right. Nothing was ever going to be the same. There was no such thing as all right any more. 

Tim stood in doorway of the manor with Alfred as Bruce's car pulled around the drive. Barbara needed her father now, and he needed Alfred. Tim watched him quietly, waiting for a sign. Bruce just looked at him and held out a shaking hand. "Go home to your father, Tim. I'll call later about the.." his voice caught briefly, "the arrangements." 

Tim stood a few moments more then went over and took the shaking hand in his. "I'm sorry, Bruce." Patting it softly, he left, wiping his own tears on his shirt sleeve. 

Alfred watched Bruce walk with a slow deliberate stride to the stairs and followed close behind. Clutching the banister with sweat slicked palms, they took each step as if they carried the world on their shoulders. Once on the 2nd floor, he followed Bruce to the 3rd door, and Alfred steeled himself. Bruce turned the well-oiled knob and together they went into Dick's old room. 

John and Mary Grayson smiled at him from the silver picture frame. He laid the badge gently on the small oak table next to the image of the flying Graysons. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for your... for our son. I'm... so s-sorr..." Bruce Wayne fell to his knees in front of the picture, all control seeping from his body. "God, please forgive me... I failed you... I failed you all... Oh Dick, I'm so sorry..." his tears ran unchecked down his face. 

Alfred stepped inside the room, remembering another time, another place... 

Bruce's voice cracked. "He always acted like he was indestructible. He should have waited for us. He knew we'd be there." Bruce gritted his teeth and spat, "He should have waited for me. He'd still be alive if he'd just waited for me. But he never thought of that, never wanted to wait for me." He pounded his hand into the wooden floor. "Dammit Alfred, I could have saved him if he'd just waited for me. Just a few lousy seconds, Alfred..." 

Alfred knelt beside him and placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Master..." he checked himself. "Bruce, please..." 

Bruce caught his hand and fell into the older man's chest, sobbing like a little boy lost. Alfred prayed that they'd never have to go through this kind of loss again. Before, when Bruce was younger, he was able to comfort the boy. Now Bruce was a man and seemed more fragile now than before. God, he thought, why now? Fathers shouldn't outlive their sons. Why this... 

Alfred held him as he sobbed, his gut-wrenching wails of pain tearing through the silence of the house. Bruce told himself he had to be strong for Barbara, for Tim, for the League and the Titans. He could cry here, now. 

And Alfred leaned against the oak bedframe cradling his charge to his body. 

The funeral was held that Sunday. Officer Richard Grayson was buried with full honors from Bludhaven PD. His pallbearers included Tim Drake, Jean-Claude Valley, Roy Harper and Wallace West. A great many people spoke at the service, talking about how kind hearted he was, how intelligent, what a great police officer he was, what a hero he was. Bruce smiled a bit, knowing that he and the rest of the world could finally openly acknowledge that Dick Grayson was a hero. That he gave his life in service of others. Not many of them and those who'd gone before could admit it openly. But Bruce proudly said, "My son is a hero, and will always be." 

The skirl of the pipes echoed through the family cemetery where Dick Grayson was finally laid to rest. The priest said final blessings as the sharp crack of the gun salute faded on the wind. Jean-Paul knelt silently in prayer as Tim hugged Barbara, sharing their grief. And through it all, Bruce stood stone-faced, his hands tucked in his jacket pockets, pacing his breathing to keep from breaking down again. 

"It's not supposed to end like this," he said. "You were supposed to bury me, old chum. You were supposed to marry Barbara and give Alfred and me a kid to spoil. You were supposed to ride me until I hung it all up. You were supposed to carry on for me..." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. I should have been. And I won't forgive myself for that. I can't forgive myself. I'm sorry you had to pay for my complacency. I promise I won't take anything else for granted." 

And as the last of the mourners headed back to the manor, Bruce laid a single rose on the coffin. Casting a last long glance at the coffin, he turned slowly and started the lonely trek back to the manor.


End file.
